Things That Never Happened To Harry Potter
by Bloodhawk 248
Summary: In one universe, Harry Potter became a legend. In others, he harnesses the powers of others to carve out his name. People he never met and battles he never won.  HP/Nasuverse cross, series of oneshots.
1. The Wizard and the Reaper

A new project to stave off writer's block! And to pass the time while I wait for prereading to be done! For anyone who cares, Phase Shift Chapter 5 is done, just waiting on a buddy of mine to finish betaing.

I was reading SuperGoldenFroggie's Alexandriad, and then his little side-story of oneshots of servants Louise could have summoned, and I was like, "Hey, why don't I do that with Harry?" Of course, there were many problems with that...so I ended up starting the bunch with blatant self-plagiarism. The other ones planned should, hopefully, be more original and of more substance than this one, which was, incidentally, unbetaed. Go figure. I'm not too happy with it; I feel like a real story would be needed to expand on it, but I'm not going to be writing it. This is mainly an experiment; I'm trying to change my writing style a bit and playing with some characters. If there's some OOC, I apologize, and I'll try to do my best to fix it. However, if you do spot a problem I ask that you tell me what it is so I can try to fix it, instead of just flaming.

Kay...rant done. So, if you can, enjoy!

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><p>Harry woke up to the smell of blood. And not just the smell, either.<p>

_What the - _

The marble chamber had become something out of a Muggle horror movie. Crimson fluid spattered the formerly-pristine white walls of the chamber, and the smell of iron hung heavily in the air. The floor wasn't spared either; pools of blood dotted the stone floor, one particularly large specimen creeping ever so slowly towards his sneakered feet.

Harry pushed himself up, one hand on the marble floor allowing him a return to a kneeling, and then a standing, position. One hand checked his jean pockets automatically for his wand, immediately finding the reassuring wooden grip snugged deep into the denim. It took some effort to pull it out, but he wasn't unarmed. How much a wand would do against the perpetrator of the killings done here, he wasn't quite sure.

A dozen black-cloaked bodies lay strewn around the room in various degrees of mutilation. It was clear that whatever had happened, whatever force of nature had been called up by the circle, every Death Eater had fallen to it. He briefly wondered if he should be concerned for his own life, then dismissed the thought. Whatever had killed the Death Eaters had had plenty of time to kill him, unconscious and motionless as he had been. It hadn't, which meant it wasn't going to. He hoped. Meanwhile, his would-be murderers were now in many pieces, eliminating the possibility of them carrying out their task.

Harry decided to take a moment to sort out how he felt about that. In life, each one of the corpses had been despicably greedy, irredeemably selfish, and completely disdainful of the lives of other human beings. Most of them were also sadists and bigots, and quite a few of them cowards as well. The world hadn't lost anything with their demise, and in fact many people would probably sleep soundly without these assorted murderers and thieves running around.

It was the principle that bothered him. Life was precious, wasn't it? It and time were two of the only things that couldn't be restored at any price. He'd lost his parents to death because it had been forced upon them, not through any natural events. He'd opposed the Death Eaters because they seemed to find it fun to kill people who only wanted to live their lives.

And yet...he'd wanted to kill Bellatrix after she'd done the same to the closest thing to a father he'd ever had. In that moment he'd wanted to inflict terrible pain on her, wanted her to scream in agony before he exacted retribution. He hadn't gotten the chance, of course, when Voldemort had carried her away after the duel with Dumbledore.

If he had, though...what would have happened to him? Could he have remained himself, the Harry who had saved the Wizarding world multiple times, the boy who'd brought light to a handful of lives and rescued a bitter, broken man from dreams of the past? Or would killing the Death Eater have brought him down to her level, turning him into a twisted shadow that enjoyed the power in taking another person's life?

He couldn't answer that. Not here, in this chamber of death. Not now, with the world hanging on his shoulders yet again. He needed to get out of here first. Then, maybe he could stop to think.

Blood squelched under his sneakers as he walked towards the stairs. He passed by the bodies, trying not to look too closely at them. That would only bring questions of what had killed them, and he didn't want to know.

He ascended the stairs, leaving bloody footprints on the marble.

The night air was fresh on his face, the bitter chill stinging his cheeks. It shocked him back to himself, and forced him to consider the question he'd been ignoring since Hermione and Ron had walked out on him.

_Where do I go from here?_

How to find the Horcruxes? He couldn't, not alone. Hermione was the thinker, not him, and even she hadn't been able to devise a satisfactory plan, not with the scarcity of information they'd suffered. What had they been thinking? Three teenagers setting out alone without any kind of support to find and destroy the Darkest kind of magic. It was the height of stupidity.

_Ron was right. I'm an idiot._

He twirled his wand absently in one hand. Red-gold sparks shot from its tip, falling into the carpet of undergrowth beneath his feet.

_I'm going to have to go back._

His pride screamed at the very idea of going back and begging for help, but his reason (in a voice sounding very much like Hermione's) staunchly overrode it. If he really cared about saving people, if he really wanted Voldemort to die, then he had to go back to everyone and marshal their resources. They needed to plan this out. Dumbledore had to have left _something. _They just hadn't found it.

Gentle light shone down upon the forested clearing, and Harry looked up. The moon hung motionless in the sky, a perfect circle. Intellectually, he knew that there were craters, imperfections marring the glowing surface, but there was no way to see them, not from here.

_Get far away enough and it doesn't matter, does it? Should it?...It's beautiful, either way._

It felt like a long time since he'd appreciated anything, or stopped to take a more detailed look. What with Death Eaters and quests, there was always something jumping out of the woodwork to either kill him or give him a headache.

_At least I can be sure nothing's going to happen now-_

A howl erupted through the woods, rising from a low grumble to a high, aggressive shout. Ringing with menace and barely-suppressed fury, it sent a cold sweat down Harry's spine.

_I spoke too soon. _

Harry quickly gauged his options. He could Apparate...if he had a clear head, and a map of the area so he knew where he could go. He could fight...that was probably going to be the option. He racked his brain and tried to remember what he knew about werewolves. He seemed to remember something about them not appearing in packs very often because of the random transformations. If they stumbled upon other werewolves they would usually group together, but that didn't happen very often.

Then again, he was assuming that there weren't more like Greyback.

'_Assume' makes an ass out of 'u' and me..._

It came out of the trees at a breakneck speed, loping easily over the flat ground. Harry had a brief glimpse of a massively-muscled chest, steel-grey fur, and a horribly-malevolent yellow eye. Then it was time to fight.

"_Stupefy-" _Even as the incantation left his lips he cursed to himself. Many varieties of magical creature were immune to Stunners, like giants and trolls, and if the dread accorded werewolves was anything to go by, they probably were too.

The spell flickered towards its target and hit the furred chest, but did absolutely nothing. Harry swore he could see a grin curl up the monster's saliva-drenched muzzle, before it slid to a halt, gathered itself, and pounced.

_Levicorpus!_

The werewolf yelped as an invisible hand yanked its rear paw and pulled it up into the air, dangling it by the aforementioned limb. Growls of frustration followed as it swung a massive forepaw that barely missed Harry's chest as he scrambled backwards. Wasting no time, the Chosen One turned and ran, feet pounding and heart thumping. The howls increased even as he left their source behind, the wolf obviously displeased that its dinner was getting away.

He made an arbitrary right turn, darting away into a new cluster of trees that looked no different.

_I've absolutely no idea where I'm going! How the hell am I going to get out-_

His ear caught a slight thump, and he twisted around mid-stride instinctively. It was probably what had saved his life.

The second werewolf's leap carried it past him, as the claws aimed for his chest caught his right arm instead. Bone parted flesh with a terrible ripping sound, tearing muscle and skin with equal ease. A spurt of crimson flew from the wound, accompanied by Harry's agonized scream. Dimly, through pain-wracked nerves, he felt his wand fall from numb fingers.

The force of the blow knocked him to the ground, throwing his body into a series of involuntary rolls that only ended when he felt his back make hard contact against a tree trunk. A groan ripped itself from his lips before he could stifle it.

He could hear the soft padding as the werewolf trotted towards him, lupine eyes alight with malicious satisfaction. Saliva began to drip from its muzzle, and the corners of its mouth peeled back to reveal long, yellow canines bared for the coming feast.

_You know, _Harry thought hazily, _if this was a book right about now the hero would get incredibly lucky and be saved by another guy who he's never met. Heck, if this was a book the author would probably set this up just so he can introduce a character-_

The wolf lowered itself onto all four paws, presumably so it could get a better grip to leap at him. As its massive body hit the ground, he saw a flash of black as something dropped to the dirt behind it. The werewolf paused, something very like confusion on its bestial face, and turned.

Harry didn't see exactly what happened, but the beast's head flew back, a howl echoing through the forest. One of its arms fell off, dripping blood, and it collapsed backwards, thumping to the ground and lying there.

_Wow. My life _is _just like a novel. _

His unexpected rescuer materialized in front of him, and extended a hand. Harry gripped the proffered limb dazedly, allowing the other man to pull him to his feet. Without saying a word, the man gripped his arm, ignoring the grunt of pain, and examined the arm. He clicked his tongue once, sounding irritated, then released the limb.

"Hold still." His voice was low, but pleasantly so, a marked difference from the growling tones of Mad-Eye Moody. A knife appeared in his hand, a few inches of steel extending from a simple wooden hilt. Cloth ripped as the stranger used the weapon to cut off part of his sleeve, then wrapped the rag tightly around Harry's wound. The Chosen One grimaced as the cloth pulled tight, but stifled any grunts of pain. He took the time to assess the newcomer.

The stranger was surprisingly short; his head came up to about Harry's nose. His body was much in the same vein, small and compact, but there was strength in his grip and an undeniable grace in the way he moved.

He wore a long, dark blue coat that was left unbuttoned so that it flapped slightly in the occasional breeze, one sleeve now gone. Underneath the coat was some kind of armor, but what it was made of Harry couldn't tell. Shadows clung to the stranger's body as if reluctant to let go, and they obscured his vision even though he was about a foot away.

The man's face, however, was completely clear. His eyes were obscured by what appeared to be bandages, wrapped tightly around his head. They were an opaque white, rendering the man effectively blind, but he didn't move like a blind man.

The masked face tilted to alight its covered eyes with Harry's green ones as he finished wrapping the sleeve around the Chosen One's wound.

"That'll stem the bleeding. It's a deep cut, but a clean one. You should get it looked at."

"Thanks." Harry muttered, unable to meet the bandaged gaze. He disengaged from his new companion and walked over to the werewolf.

It was dead, of course. The blow that had snapped its head back had slit its throat, and blood was still dribbling out of the torn flesh, likewise with the severed arm. Harry prodded the werewolf with a toe and flinched back with a startled yelp when the meat slid apart, squelching horribly.

The smell of blood filled the air again.

"Sorry about that." There was a hint of ruefulness in the bandaged man's tone. "Juushichi Bunkatsu does that sometimes."

Harry barely heard him, eyes fixed on the meaty ruins. Though blood and gore were sprinkled liberally around the wounds, the cuts themselves were incredibly sharp and clean. It was as if the cut had given the body incentive to just fall apart, like the cutting blade wasn't the real killer.

He hadn't taken a close look at the Death Eater corpses, but now he was sure that if he returned to the chamber he would see wounds very similar to this one.

"You killed the Death Eaters." His voice was soft, monotonous. That was just as well; he couldn't figure out what he was feeling himself, so if it had shown up in his voice it would have been confused.

"Is that what they call themselves?" The low voice seemed amused in a casual way, as if they were discussing the weather instead of death. "I hope they didn't think it would mean anything."

"You killed them." This time he turned to meet the masked gaze. Though the stranger didn't make any big movements, his body hunched in on itself slightly in a manner that indicated confusion.

"Yeah, I did." His head cocked slightly to one side. "Should I not have? They did look like they were going to do the same to you."

"How do you do it?"

A smirk played around the stranger's mouth. Steel glinted in his hand as he raised it. "With this knife-"

"Not that!" A dam burst within him, and he stepped straight into the other man's personal space, very intentionally leaning over him. "How do you kill so easily?" The stranger opened his mouth, but Harry continued right over him. "How do you know whether or not killing's right? How do you live with yourself after you do it? How do you-"

Moonlight caught on steel as the knife twirled and flipped in the stranger's hand. Harry stopped abruptly, conscious of what exactly that knife had done just a few minutes before. Vaguely, he wondered why there wasn't any blood on the blade.

The stranger didn't speak for a long moment. The knife stilled its movement in his hands and he raised his sightless face to the moon, facing it with the intent that usually came with staring at something.

"I'm a monster." The words that left Remus Lupin in a cold sweat came so easily from this stranger's lips. "Killing is my first instinct, or was." He shrugged, still gazing at the moon. "A side effect of my heritage, apparently." Once again the knife flicked into motion as he sent it upwards with a flick of his thumb and caught it between two fingers as it fell down.

"It's gonna come out trite, but..." he shrugged again, "there are some things worth doing anything for. I don't kill for fun and I always make sure whoever I kill deserves it."

"How do you determine that?" Harry asked softly.

"There isn't a value on the human life, you know." The stranger hummed. "Still, I figure a life for a life is a pretty good indicator. If they've killed someone, or ruined lives, seems fair enough to me."

Harry felt his eyes narrow. "That's a cop-out."

"What do you want me to tell you?" The words carried no heat. "If you're so worried about it, then don't. You're not missing out on anything, trust me."

"It's the principle of the thing!" Harry didn't quite shout. "Is it right to kill people just because they're in your way?"

The stranger held up a hand. "Look, you won't accept anything I say because you don't really want an answer. You just want to feel better about whichever course you take." He turned his featureless head back to meet green eyes with white cloth. "Here's my advice; if you're really not sure, don't do it. You can always rectify that if you decide it's not enough. That way you don't blacken your soul and guilt yourself into making a contract with the world or something."

Harry blinked again. "..What?"

The stranger sighed. "Never mind. The point is, don't kill until you're absolutely sure you can handle it. I had a friend who used to say 'Only those who are willing to be shot should shoot'. Worked well enough for him."

Harry digested the words. The advice, surprisingly, seemed sound. If killing was indeed a sin, he needed to think about it quite a bit. He had nothing to lose by abstaining from it, but quite a bit if he used the Killing Curse and realized too late it damned him. It sounded like something Hermione would say...if she hadn't been dead-set against any form of murder.

"...You know what, I think I'll take that advice. Thanks." Then, a blindingly obvious question struck him. "...What are you doing here?"

The stranger's reaction was a non-reaction. He just stared sightlessly at Harry for a moment, then shook his head.

"Ah, hell. Not again. Can I explain this tomorrow? I really don't feel like doing it now."

"...You don't want to explain what you're doing here?" Harry repeated flatly.

"Yeah, because it involves a whole bunch of crap about Servants and Holy Grails and Wars. Only, I can feel prana and the Holy Grail definitely isn't here, so that's gonna make it more complicated." The stranger tugged at a loose bandage. "Basically: I'm here to stay until further notice. Now go sleep. I'll stand guard and we'll go through everything tomorrow."

Harry was caught off-guard again by the sudden topic change. "I don't even know your name."

The stranger cocked his head. "...In light of your little moral dilemma...call me Satsujinki. That's as good a name as any."

There were many more questions that Harry wanted to ask, but he was really tired and going to sleep sounded like an excellent idea. So he trudged back to the temple, making note to pull the tent out of the chamber so he wouldn't have to smell blood for the rest of the night.

A last glimpse of his new companion showed him silhouetted against the trees, once again looking up at the moon.


	2. The Wizard and the Knight

Next oneshot! I'm...not proud of this one at all. It started out strong, then encountered a little bump and then my plot idea seemed to abandon me, so I'm not sure if it makes any sense. I wasn't going to put it up, then I decided "Hell, maybe just for the lulz." It's also unbeta'ed. Oneshots like these are primarily meant as background so I can explore ideas that they set up without people yelling at me that it's not possible given the current background, but they seem like too much work. Maybe I'll just plop a Servant into the HP world and leave no explanation...hey, that sounds like fun!

Anyway, enjoy!

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><p>The spell, a bolt of indigo light that flashed with interspersed streaks of orange, struck his arm. Immediately, flesh writhed and distended, folding in on itself. Skin ripped and split as it broke free of its moorings, forming miniature pillars of meat that imploded in on themselves later, spattering blood over the rest of his body. Now visible through the wreckage of the skin, muscles rippled and tensed, stretching themselves to tearing points but never quite going past that threshold. It was worse than breaking his arm, worse than being hit by an errant Bludger, worse even than the pain of the Cruciatus Curse. If he could scream, he would have.<p>

Unfortunately, his vocal cords had already been worn out, and he could only manage an agonized croak. Something wet spilled down his cheek, and he recognized the all-too familiar feeling of a tear. A hard, bony hand gripped him by the chin and forced his head up.

"Now, now, ickle Harry, we wouldn't want you falling asleep on us." The voice, syrupy-sweet and loaded with poison, struck a chord of recognition in him and he tried, tried to remember. As he did, the pain in his body intensified, the minor aches and dull throbs in his chest mingling with the grinding pins and needles in his broken legs and the sharp, wrenching fire in his arm.

The hand squeezed his chin one last time before removing itself. Harry's head, no longer supported, fell down and struck the cold stone floor with a thump.

"Pathetic." The voice sneered. "He's no Chosen One; just a sniveling boy who got lucky."

"I don't think he can hear you, Bellatrix." Cool disdain was evident as footsteps signalled the arrival of a new speaker. "He seems to be too busy crying. At any rate, we should go. The Dark Lord is almost ready to announce his triumphant return."

There was no reply but the receding of more footsteps, and then the thump of a door against its frame.

And Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, was left to contemplate the meaning of pain.

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><p>Neville knew something was wrong the moment he stepped down into the Great Hall.<p>

Breakfast at Hogwarts was always a noisy affair, with the various House tables always packed full of eating, chattering students and the occasional sonorous declarations of ghosts, especially Nearly-Headless Nick. It was never quiet. Never.

Except that today, when the entire hall should be in the full throes of cheerful conversation, it was instead dead silent. Every student was seated, but those whose faces he could see were paled. Some looked sick. He cast a look at the professors' table, and felt his stomach fall. Sprout's face was pinched and worried. Flitwick looked shocked and sickened. Slughorn wore a gloomy look of dismay, and Snape wore a curious mixture of elation and disgust on his face.

And McGonagall...the Transfiguration Professor was shaking, a look of utmost rage evident on her sharp, avian features.

Quickly, Neville made his way to the Gryffindor table, slipping quickly besides Ginny with an apologetic smile. "What's going on?" he whispered.

The redhead turned, but before she could answer the gates flew open with a tremendous crash. Every person in the hall jumped to their feet, wands sliding into their hands. Neville jammed a hand into his pocket, cursing the tightness of his jeans, but freed his wand without too much effort and turned, prepared to cast curses or charms.

Slowly, purposefully, two columns of black-cloaked wizards trooped into the Great Hall. As they passed through the gates they turned, one column splitting off to each side until they formed a line of black against the golden backdrop of the hall. Each one was hooded and masked, expressionless save for the leers and grimaces of their masks.

The room was still for a long moment. Then, once again moving with purpose, the Death Eaters composing the middle of the line turned and stepped out of the arrangement, turning to head towards the ends of the line and leaving an empty space where they had previously stood. The reason for this became painfully evident when two more of the masked murderers appeared from the back, dragging a small, shrunken form with them.

Neville felt his mouth dry. It couldn't be.

The Death Eaters carried their burden through the space their comrades had formed, then pulled him up. One seized the body's head by its long, unruly black hair and jerked it up so that the entire hall could see his face.

Beside him Ginny gasped.

The boy held between them was missing one eye; it had been gouged out, but so cleanly that it had to have been the result of a curse. Dried blood matted the entire left side of his face, obviously a result of the mutilation. Scars, short and ugly, dotted the cheek just under his eye, and another one ran around the circumference of his face, just underneath his nose.

His right eye was open, staring blankly out at them. There was nothing behind that gaze, so it could have been anyone...but there was no mistaking its vivid emerald shade. It was Harry.

The Death Eater let go of his hair and Harry's head fell, lolling on his neck. Both of the older wizards dropped him on the ground and stepped away, filing to join the line.

"Residents of Hogwarts."

Neville jerked as the impossibly cold, high voice echoed through the high ceilings and spaces of the hall. Ice gathered in his stomach and chilled his spine, because he _knew _that voice.

The impossibly pale, thin form of Voldemort stepped easily through the gap, walking with a delicate grace and economy of motion that seemed at odds with such a mishappen individual. The malevolent serpentine slits stared down all of Hogwarts' population, and a cruel smirk curled his thin mouth.

"I have caught your champion and broken him. Look at him. Did you truly think a teenager, a mere boy, could hope to prevail against the most powerful wizard in all of our long history?"

Sinister laughs broke out from the massed ranks of the Death Eaters, and the Dark Lord's smile grew even wider.

"Your last hope is hopeless, and I have penetrated your most secure bastion with little effort. Had you prepared, you might have been able to stave me off for some time...but now you are helpless before my forces. Should it be my wish every single one of you would be dead by now, a lesson to those who would seek to challenge me."

"But Lord Voldemort is merciful." The snake-pupils traversed the hall, landing on the Slytherin table, whose occupants had hunched together as if for protection. "Do not think me so eager to spill blood in my first home. I do not relish killing the Wizarding world's finest young minds. Those of you who swear loyalty to me will be allowed to live. Those who do not..." A foot nudged the prone boy's body, "will end up like Harry here."

The Dark Lord of Britain turned, his gaze sweeping up to the professors' table. "Severus, if you would?"

For once, the Head of Slytherin looked dismayed, but before he could say anything McGonagall rose from her seat beside him, the lines of her face hard and set. Voldemort regarded her with an amused smirk. She opened her mouth - and then whipped out her wand. Purple flame burst from its tip and struck a pair of Death Eaters, who fell to the ground convulsing as the magical flames ate at their robes and flesh.

As if at a signal, every professor was moving, casting curses and defensive spells to shield both themselves and the vast majority of students who still sat slack-jawed in their seats. Shouts and screams echoed within the hall as the battle began in earnest. Neville cast a Shield Charm to deflect an incoming curse, and sent a Stunner back as repayment. Beside him, Ginny's pretty face was alight with rage as she twirled her wand expertly, shooting curses and jinxes towards every Death Eater in range. A quick glance showed every Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw following suit, with even some Slytherins joining in.

Even with the extra help, it wouldn't be enough, Neville sensed, as he twisted to avoid a turquoise jet. Voldemort himself was here, and they weren't ready. They were going to lose. They would die, or be tortured -

_Just like my parents._

The sudden snarl that formed on the usually placid boy's face would have shocked anyone who knew him, and indeed the Death Eater who next found himself up against the young Gryffindor flinched at the ferocity of the spells coming at him.

Win or lose, Neville Longbottom would fight as hard as his parents had.

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><p>His eye hurt.<p>

No, it wasn't his eye. They'd taken it out a while ago-

Or had they?

It was too hard to remember. Even harder to think. Too much noise. Could they keep it down please?

His body hurt all over. They'd done this to him, those bastards-

Who were 'they' again?

Too much noise. What was going on?

Somebody fell down in front of him, spattering liquid all over his face. That wasn't called for; don't do that please -

The face looked familiar. He couldn't recognize it, but something was telling him he should have. Who was it? A round, chubby face, nearly cut in half. That can't be too healthy for him-

_Round. Chubby. A smile._

"...Neville?"

_No. No. No no no no no._

It all came rushing back to him. His left eye was gone. 'They' were the Death Eaters. The noise was a battle. And Neville...humans couldn't survive wounds like that. His skull had been split open; he could tell.

Neville was dead.

_No!_

A crash drew his attention, and he lifted his head just in time to see Professor McGonagall lifted up into the air, arms flailing wildly as her wand dropped from numb fingers. Cackling with mad glee, a Death Eater pointed his wand and shouted. Green light flashed, and the Transfiguration Teacher dropped to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

_Stop it! STOP!_

Everywhere he looked, people were dying. People he'd shared the castle for years with, people he knew, people he cared about. Here, Professor Sprout split in half by a vicious Cutting Curse. There, Michael Corner covered in inky darkness, screaming as it bore him to the ground.

He was the Chosen One, wasn't he? The only one who could stop Voldemort? Then why...why couldn't he stop this?

Why couldn't he save them?

_I have to do something...anything. Get up! Please, just get up!_

But even if he did, what could he do? He was missing an eye and had no wand. He had no power-

_I need power. I need to save them! I'll do anything if I can just save them-_

**What will you promise, in return for that power?**

He didn't know where that voice came from, and he didn't care.

_Anything!_

**Then it is done. You will have your desire. And in return, you will become my guardian. So it is sworn.**

The change was palpable, and immediately noticeable. Something roared through his body, and he suddenly knew he could stand up. As first steps go, it wasn't much.

_But I'll take it._

Howling with effort, he pushed against the smooth stone floor, lifting himself upwards with Herculean will. As his body rose, so did his strength increase, until he was standing upright again, looking out on the raging battle.

_No, not standing...I can't be standing with broken legs._

He looked down, and realized he was floating ever so slightly above the ground, body gently bobbing up and down in the air.

_How's this possible?_

Even as he pondered that, words crowded Harry's head, words that he was fairly sure hadn't been spoken at all.

_That little mudblood wench!_

_Can't block it in time, I'm gonna -_

_The Dark Lord will reward me for this!_

The influx of words-thoughts? crushed his own, and he pressed hands to his head frantically, trying to stem the tide. This was his power? What could he do with this?

_Too late to think. Just do something._

So he did.

One hand extended outwards, towards a group of advancing Death Eaters, and closed into a fist. The effect was instantaneous; the black-robed wizards were crushed together, an invisible hand closing tightly around them as bones crunched and snapped under the force of the onslaught.

Harry opened his hand and watched the pathetic bodies crumple to the ground. Their thoughts died too, sudden silence where before there had been excited, nervous chatter.

_How many people did I just murder? Ten, twenty? _

A bolt of light shot towards him, and with a wave of his hand that came instinctively it dissipated against an invisible barrier. The culprit was immediately flung backwards, mask shattering as his face came into contact with the ancient stone wall. Blood spattered the gray surface.

He _felt _it when the man died, when the gibbering mass of fear and terror of his thoughts simply ceased to exist. The pressure of the thoughts vanished, easing the stress on his mind, but the empty void they left behind was somehow more terrible than any pain.

Horror rose up in him, but he mastered it, locking it away in the deepest recesses of his being. This wasn't the time or the place for sentiment. There was only room for violence of the most elemental kind against an enemy of the worst caliber.

"Impressive, Harry."

Like a wraith appearing from the air, Voldemort materialized in front of him, a wicked smirk adorning his misshapen face. "But all your friends are dying while you struggled to gain this power that I'm sure you don't understand. Struggle if you wish, but you will meet the same fate as them."

The roar that burst from his throat wasn't something that should come from a human mouth. Death Eaters around him flinched from the audio manifestation of pure hate, and even Voldemort blanched for a moment, red eyes widening ever so slightly. Then the smirk returned.

"Then die like the animal you are."

The Dark Lord raised his wand. In response, the Chosen One, lone eye filled with rage, lifted both hands.

And the end of an eighteen-year long conflict began.

* * *

><p>"Tch...What a mess."<p>

Black and grey cloth shifted in the wind as its wearer turned. Long white hair tied back in a ponytail whipped as well, causing the girl to release a slight grunt of irritation but otherwise remain stationary.

_Some kind of war happen here or something?_

The wizarding world and the Church had uneasily coexisted for hundreds of years, much as the Church had with the Mages Association. Though wizards were nominally heretics, practicing magic as dangerous as magecraft, and with a much-less insular society than that of the mages, the Church had held off on any sort of crusade, instead content to leave them be as long as they controlled their internal affairs.

Granted, the various Ministries of Magic had always been spotty in that particular area, given the recent rise of two powerful Dark Lords, but Grindelwald had mostly confined his terror to that of his own kind - ironic, considering his bigoted personal views - and Britain had long been a country of heretics who did not see eye-to-eye with the Church. The few Catholics still living in Britain had grouped together in close societies, for protection from the majority as well as for the solidity of shared faith, and the Executors and knights stationed there were perfectly capable of fending off rogue wizards and their ilk.

Consequently, when massive flares and eruptions of the wizards' magic' had been detected, the response had been quick; a group of Church knights had been dispatched to investigate the occurrences and determine if they had the potential to be threatening to Mother Church. However, the wizarding enchantments had, unfortunately, stumped their progress, leading them to stumble around in the general vicinity.

Until, of course, a flare of mana - not magic - had shattered those enchantments, and suddenly a massive castle appeared where none had been before. The knights, of course, had rushed there immediately. What they had found was a ruin of a once majestic structure, and quite a few bodies.

Boots crunched against stone and dirt as she moved into the blasted-down walls of what was obviously once a dining hall. It had taken heavy damage during the fighting, whatever spells the wizards had cast on it for support and strength no match for the energy released.

The dead were everywhere, clad ubiquitously in robes. Some of the corpses wore silver masks, but the vast majority of them looked to be teenagers between the ages of eleven and seventeen. She swallowed a lump in her throat.

A truly massive creature lay dead before her, blocking her passage. Clad only in a dirty, tattered loincloth, it stank to high heaven, pebbly gray skin charred and blackened by fire. Strangely enough, the burns were all wrong to be death wounds...perhaps the fire had special properties?

She gathered herself and leaped over the body, sailing gracefully through the air to land easily on her feet. Her white cloak flapped momentarily in the wind, settling around her waist once she touched down.

The scene before her was one she never seen before; her experience with battles mainly consisted of Dead Apostles, and the vampire creatures rarely left anyone alive. When the fighting was over and the blood running, there was only clean-up to accomplish.

There were of course, more bodies that lay in clumps along the ruined tiles, but her main focus was the man who knelt before her, cradling the ruins of a girl in his arms. He was sobbing; tears were dripping down onto the girl's pale face.

Beside them lay the trembling black-robed corpse of a hideously-deformed man. His nose had melted into his face, with only a pair of slits left to signify nostrils. His left arm was crushed to mangled paste, as were his legs. His right hand was missing altogether, the arm terminating in a bloody stump.

_Hey...isn't he the head honcho? What's-his-name...Vogalmork?_

The mutilated man whimpered and twitched, as if trying to move. The truncated end of his right arm reached out, as if attempting to grasp the floor with fingers that were no longer there.

"None of that, you fucker."

Vogalmork's body rose abruptly into the air, without any particular reason. As his eyes widened and he gasped out a breath, whatever force lifting him from the ground drove him hard into the wall with an audible snap of bones.

"You can't die, Voldemort." Her eyes snapped back to the kneeling man. His face was still down-turned, but his words were clear. So was the venom injected into each word. "You've killed too many people for that. But being immortal doesn't make you invincible. So I can just keep doing this."

Vogalmork - _Voldemort _- was pulled away from the wall, blood streaming from his nose slits and various cuts on his face. For a moment he rotated in place, and then he slammed headfirst into the wall. This time, the assault didn't stop; his body was drawn back and thrown again and again, until his face was nothing more than a mass of bruises and cuts streaming crimson.

The Church agent took a step forward, now on full alert. She'd never seen this kind of telekinesis before. The Seventh Seat of the Burial Agency was known to have limited telekinetic abilities, but those only extended to manipulating small objects in limited ways. This was on a far greater scale.

She opened her mouth to greet the man, perhaps even introduce herself. Before she could do so, he looked up.

"Ro-Roast Beef? That's a strange name."

She frowned. "What?"

"What kind of name is Roast Beef?"

"What the hell are you talking about-"

She froze. Roast Beef...

"You're a telepath." It wasn't a question. She studied his face more carefully, though inside she winced. His left eye was gone; only a mass of clotted blood remained in its place. Scars were everywhere on his face, small but standing out against his tan complexion. His hair was long and unkempt, a look not uncommon on prisoners incarcerated for long periods of time. And for all that, he was shockingly _young - _only eighteen or so.

He shrugged, uncaring, and she found herself hesitating. By all rights, she should be interrogating him for the answers of what had happened here, but...he was obviously in shock, probably from having all of his friends murdered around him. It probably wouldn't be wise to antagonize him.

A moan broke her chain of thought, and she glanced around. Voldemort had fallen to the ground sometime during their impromptu conversation, and was now whimpering like a child.

The boy followed her gaze, and vicious light flared in his one remaining eye as the tears dried on his face. He raised a hand, and with a disgusting liquid slurp, the once-Dark Lord's right arm was pulled out of its socket. Voldemort screamed in agony, writhing on the stone floor.

"He deserved it." She looked questioningly at him, and he met her gaze with a steady stare. "He deserves more than I can do to him."

"You said he can't die?"

The boy nodded. "There's probably a way to kill him, but I don't know it."

Armored feet clattered against the ruined stone before she could reply. Looking up, she saw the other seven knights of her group moving towards them, halberds and blades drawn and ready.

"Friends of yours?" The boy had a strange smile on his face. "Hmm...let's see, Sir Roth, Sir Kylar, Sir Johannes-"

"Don't do that." She turned a piercing stare on him, and he shrank back slightly. "Keep our thoughts to yourself." He opened his mouth in reply, but she turned away.

The tallest knight, clad in gleaming silver armor from head to toe, reached her and bowed his helmeted head. "We've found no survivors, only bodies. It appears the battle claimed everyone's lives." He tilted his head down. "Though it seems you've had more luck."

"Yep." She waved one gloved hand at the boy, still kneeling, and the trembling, whining body next to him. "Two survivors. One of them is apparently the renegade wizard who's been stirring up so much trouble, and the other is a telepath."

Immediately all the knights tensed, armored hands tightening around weapon handles. She shook her head. "He's also a telekine, so don't bother. Pale-face over there learned that the hard way."

"What are your orders?" The helmeted knight didn't relax his guard.

"Well," she tipped her head to one side, thinking, "our original objective was to see what was going on, and if it would affect Church affairs. We have seen what was going on, and now we have a wizard who apparently can't die...we should probably take him back to headquarters so they can figure out what makes him tick. I doubt any of the wizards will be complaining"

"What about the boy?"

"I'm coming with you." The aforementioned boy rose to his feet. Literally rose, and kept rising until his feet were off the ground, legs dangling limply beneath him. All of the knights made involuntary movements. "Don't bother, like your boss lady says. I know what you're going to do." He closed his eye for a moment. "I can't shut it out, it's like you people are screaming at me. So, like Roast Beef says-"

"Stop butchering my name." She replied calmly. "It's _Riesbyfe. _Reez-Baife." One of the knights in the back snickered quietly, and she glared at him.

"He can Apparate. It's like teleportation." A smirk crossed his face. "Hey, another of the 'tele' family. Maybe I can do that too! Anyway, you probably can't stop him from Apparating once he gets his sense back. I can."

"Sir Riesbyfe?" Sir Johannes looked at her inquisitively. "You are in command. What are your orders?"

Riesbyfe Stridberg considered the engima standing before her. He was probably insane, or at the very least violently dysfunctional. Wizards were said to be half-cocked at the best of times, and now he had the extra baggage of his dead friends riding down on his shoulders. And he was just a boy.

"Don't call me a boy." She started as he addressed her, his teeth clenched. "You're just as young as I am, Roast Beef."

"Stop reading my mind." Riesbyfe snapped. The boy laughed, a hollow, harsh sound.

"You think it's that easy? It's your fault, not mind! Your thoughts are all spilling out, and you aren't bothering to keep them inside, so I hear them and I _see _them and it's like a drug trip or something-" he choked out, all his insolence suddenly gone, "and killing people is so much different when you can _feel them die! _I don't know how I got it, it just came to me after a voice in my head asked me what I would to do save them and I-" His voice dropped. "I-"

Riesbyfe felt her stomach drop. Yes, she was a warrior, but she was a warrior of the Church, and the Church was supposed to protect mankind against horrors both physical and spiritual. And in addition to that, it was supposed to _help_ people. Maybe it was her youth, maybe naivete, but...

"Alright. It's a long trip, though, so we need to see to your injuries." He looked up, startled, and she was struck by the brilliance of that single green eye. "What's your name?"

He smiled, a trembling, broken thing.

"Harry Potter."

Riesbyfe nodded once. "Good to meet you. Come on, let's go."


	3. The Wizard, the Faker, and the Madman

Okay, this is getting ridiculous. I don't like this oneshot at all; it contains way too many things that need to be explained but aren't. God, I need to stick to something simple. So far, the only shot i'm satisfied with is the first one, which is a terrible track record: 1/3.

The Servant who appears in this chapter is a fan-made creation, designed by Logan Murder of Crows. If you're interested enough by my brief description to want to know more about him, go ahead and contact the guy. He's a whiz at making up Servants, and I hope to include some of his creations in later chapters that do more justice to them. Ugh...

Well then, enjoy.

* * *

><p>Vincent Venezzia woke up in the middle of a street littered with debris and detritus, with the sounds of battle echoing in the distance. A nearby building on the street corner collapsed with a groan, metal and wood breaking against the ground. A cloud of dust drifted up from the wreckage.<p>

He took a moment to wryly reflect that this was not at all atypical for him, and what that said about his life.

Then he got back to work.

His navy blue trenchcoat rustled as he got up. To his right, a few feet away, lay the still-gleaming form of a submachine gun, smoke still curling up from its barrel. He picked it up, the grip solid and familiar against his palm.

"Oi!" he called carefully, "anyone still alive?"

As if in answer someone grunted in pain, the sound loud and guttural in the sudden break in noise. Vincent's ears tracked the noise, and he let out a groan of his own.

"I'm not a goddamn gravedigger," he muttered, "if I was I could have stayed home." A quick flick of his thumb dropped the gun's magazine, and with a practiced ease he pulled a fresh clip from his coat, sliding it home until it stopped with a reassuring click. That accomplished, he ran towards the collapsed building, weapon readied.

The structure had once been a convenience store, he noticed. The fluorescent sign on the roof had shattered, the disparate sections of light bulbs sparking feebly. Pieces of glass littered the concrete where the doors had buckled under the falling roof. A mass of twisted metal and splintered wood was all that was left of the store. For the life of him, Vincent could not see how he was supposed to get someone out of the makeshift tomb.

Fortunately, he didn't have to.

A particularly large wooden beam sitting on top of the rubble shifted, scraping against the rest of the debris, and fell off the pile with a thump. A steel fist emerged from the heap in a pile of dust.

Vincent clicked the safety off his gun reflexively. He recognized that gauntlet, had actually encountered its business end quite a few times.

Metal screamed torturously, and something shattered. The fist withdrew into the heap, only to emerge again, and again. It was soon joined by another, which gripped a long piece of metal and _pushed._

From the newly-created hole emerged a man.

He was physically unassuming - even his height of six feet was not particularly unusual and though of clearly Asian descent, his red hair did not really clash with that image. His clothes were stranger; in the middle of an urban street, he was dressed in steel armor so silver it seemed to shine like a beacon in the dusty urban background and a flowing azure cape.

Above all of that, though, were his eyes. They were of purest gold, a beautiful color so seldom seen naturally, but belied the person who stared at the world from behind them.

Vincent smirked as the warrior shook himself off.

"What took you so long, man of swords?"

* * *

><p>Emiya Shirou hurt. A lot.<p>

The armor had taken most of the force, both of the initial impact and the collapse of the building.

But 'most' was a far cry from 'all'. Enough of the power from both shocks had bled through to make tomorrow morning incredibly unpleasant. But he was still alive. Fate willing, that wouldn't be changing anytime soon.

He ignored Vincent; the Italian exorcist had very little meaningful to say at the best of times, and now wasn't one of those. His presence here was entirely an accident, and to be honest Shirou wasn't sure why the man had stayed. The Church didn't teach its operatives to be foolishly self-sacrificial, which was one reason why he'd never really gotten along with them.

Another crash echoed in from farther away, sending up a cloud of dust. Shirou winced.

"Vincent." The exorcist snapped to attention, regarding him through wary blue eyes. "Get out of here, go and see if you can call anymore Church members."

"I knew you were going to say that." The shorter man snorted. "You self-sacrificial types always do."

"Don't give me that. You're going to die if you fight her, it's that simple."

Cobalt eyes narrowed slightly. "So are you, man of swords. You're tough, not invincible. She'll go through you as easily as me."

Shirou gritted his teeth. "Why should it matter to you? Follow your orders and go."

The exorcist shrugged easily and turned. "Sure. Maybe we can scrape together enough of what's left of you and your friends to fill one grave."

There was really nothing he could say to that. Instead, he flooded his legs with mana, feeling the familiar fire surge in his limbs, and leaped away.

When Shirou finally touched down, it was in the middle of a frenzied melee that had already demolished most of the buildings in the immediate vicinity and carved great gouges into the street. The combatants were only barely perceivable as blurs, and their attacks even more so; often a piece of rubble would seemingly detach itself from its previous mooring or a swathe of ground suddenly split in two randomly.

Shirou reached inwards, feeling the flow of his mana, and diverted some to his eyes. Immediately, the battle seemed to slow down, the individual warriors' forms resolving themselves.

Standing with her feet planted steadily on the ground, eyes narrowed intently, was the Seventh Seat of the Burial Agency. Her robes whipped about her, caught in the ferocious winds unleashed by the battle. The long thin blades known as Black Keys flew from her hands, slicing the air with deadly intent.

Purple hair tied in a tight braid flashed wildly, just before the slim figure of Sion Eltnam appeared in mid-air, a fierce scowl contorting her features. One hand flicked outwards, the barely-visible strands of Ethelite flying from her fingers. A wall collapsed in pieces, sending up another burst of dust. Sion landed on her feet, only to launch herself forward again, Ethelite flickering.

Individually, they were both formidable fighters, capable of a wide array of attacks and maneuvers. Together, even grudgingly, the combination of flawless calculation and refined aggression would take down most opponents. Unfortunately, the being that stood before them was one of the exceptions to the rule.

A downward jerk of a clawed hand opened Ciel's chest in a gush of ruby drops, sharpened fingers carving through flesh with little resistance. A negligent kick hurled the executor's body off to slam into the ruins of a building. Without breaking her stride, the creature spun elegantly, meeting Sion in mid-leap with the point of her foot. Sion let out a gasp of pain, eliciting a cruel smirk from her tormentor before she seized her by her braid and smashed her against the ground, hard.

The creature stepped down on the alchemist's back, drawing another pained intake of breath. She smiled again, raising one hand to paint the street with her blood.

"_Trace, on."_

The words, so familiar and comforting, came to his lips without a conscious thought. His circuits sparked and steel filled his hands.

His legs, still humming with the power of Reinforcement, launched him forward with all the speed of a leaping lion. Both blades in his hands sang as he slashed them through the air. He hit the vampire with all the force of a speeding freight train, knocking her off the prone body of his friend. It screeched in frustration and lashed out with one taloned hand, which he deflected with one of his blades. The other streaked forward, midnight black steel arcing through the air, and buried itself in the vampire's shoulder.

The momentary victory was soon repaid in interest, in the form of a vicious backhand that hurled Shirou off his feet and sent him rolling across the street with his head ringing like a bell. Eventually, he rolled to a stop, his body shouting in protest.

He heard someone scream his name. Then strong hands were pulling him up, letting him plant his feet on the ground again.

"This approach is not working." Sion was beside him, purple eyes burning with frustration. A livid bruise was forming on her cheek. "We must change our tactics."

"Change how?" Shirou regarded her with amusement. "I'm not sure even you know how to fight a True Ancestor at the height of its power."

Sion merely glared at him. "There is no such thing as an unsolvable equation. We are simply not utilizing the right algorithms."

Shirou thought briefly about mentioning the list of ten unsolvable equations, but demurred. For all he knew, she had solved them.

"Okay, what would you suggest we do?"

Sion tapped her chin with one finger. "True Ancestors are beings of a much higher magnitude than humans, and their full potential is unknown. There has never been a recorded instance of a True Ancestor fighting at full power; their suppression of their bloodlust invariably seals away the greater portion of their capabilities."

Kanshou and Bakuya hummed gently in Shirou's hands as he gave them experimental test swipes. "And?"

The alchemist's face took on a grim cast. "Because of that, we have no experience with such a being. True Ancestors can heal from almost any attack and have access to the Marble Phantasm...even without using these capabilities she is easily holding her own against us."

"I wouldn't call it _holding._" Shirou replied. His head was still throbbing. "It's not exactly a close fight, you know."

"If you would stop contradicting me," Sion continued through gritted teeth, "perhaps we would have a solution." Lavender eyes narrowed suddenly. "You possess an armory of Noble Phantasms; is there not one that might at the very least slow the True Ancestor down?"

"If you want her slowed down, I can do that." The man of swords gave her an oblique look. "I was hoping for something more permanent, though."

The alchemist shrugged. "It will have to do for now. Do your best to distract her; I will attend to Ciel."

"'Ciel'? Not 'Executor'?" Even in the middle of a life-or-death struggle, such a thing was bizarre enough to warrant attention. Shirou peered at her, and was surprised to see the faintest tinge of a blush on her face. "What on earth-?"

"Never mind!" Her hand shot up suddenly, and only a quick tilt of his head saved him from an impromptu slap. "Just do it!" With that, the alchemist vaulted off, springing into an athletic cartwheel just as a stray gust of wind blew through the street and...

Well, her skirt was pretty short. It was an interesting view. Shirou fervently hoped she hadn't noticed. He had no desire to be 'spirit-hacked'.

The soft patter of feet on gravel quickly brought his thoughts back to the grim business at hand. Slowly, with a casual air, the True Ancestor began to advance, fangs bared. One hand scraped carelessly against a nearby building, cutting furrows in the steel and wooden frame. Pale hair fluttered innocuously around her head, almost like a halo. If not for the grossly-elongated fingers and the horribly mad red eyes, the creature could have been nothing more than an extraordinarily beautiful girl. The tragic thing was that, according to Ciel, it had once been, or at least honestly attempted to be.

"_Love makes you crazy, Emiya-kun."_

He chuckled grimly. That was certainly true.

"Alright then..." He flicked Kanshou casually at the vampire's head. As expected, a clawed hand snapped it from the air, crushing it in one hand. Even as steel crumpled under an inexorable grip, Shirou's other hand was snapping Bakuya forward, hurling it towards the True Ancestor's foot. Also as expected, the second blade was intercepted, this time by the very foot it had been intended to cripple, and was snapped against the pavement by a stomp.

Blood-red eyes turned back to him, filled with malice. He didn't see them. His eyes were already closed.

He hadn't used this particular Noble Phantasm for a long time. The memories it dredged up were too strong and too painful for him to face. He saw it far too often in his dreams, along with its original wielder, and that wasn't something he could deal with in his days as well as his nights. But now, he couldn't afford to let it sit away in his memories. He possessed only one other weapon as powerful as this one, and he had absolutely no hope of using that one.

This weapon had slain the mad warrior Heracles five times, breaching even his tremendous defense to deliver the finishing blows. It was the fabled weapon whose wielder the entire world knew by name. He wasn't worthy to use it, but if it helped save his friends, he had no regrets.

Shirou thought, for one moment, that she might be proud of him.

Then, it was time for action. The prana hummed through his circuits, and he molded it, twisting and shaping it into what it needed to be.

"Trace, on."

And there it was, shining bright gold in the afternoon sunlight. A little longer than three feet, with a smooth handle tailored for a two-handed grip, it fit perfectly into his hands. The True Ancestor paused, purple dress flaring out around it as it tensed.

Shirou charged, armored feet pounding against the ground. The armor's attached cape rippled out behind him, as if caught in a strong blast of wind. In his hands, the golden blade gleamed, thrumming beneath his gloved grip. He thought he could see a light appear in his enemy's eyes.

Then, they made contact.

Caliburn's first blow was knocked aside by an equally-strong punch; Shirou ducked to avoid being penetrated by more of those razor-sharp fingers. He spun as he fell, sweeping the longsword down to sever her legs at the knees. The True Ancestor bounded upwards in an astonishing display of quickness, avoiding the strike with ease, but she didn't stop there, continuing to hurtle upwards until sje nearly obscured the sun.

What goes up, must come down.

Her returning dive was like the force of a comet, and Shirou leaped backwards, barely avoiding the strike that shattered gravel and concrete. He whipped a pair of lateral cuts at both sides of her neck before the dust cleared and felt one connect. A high kick lashed out through the cloud, and he twisted, taking it as a graze to his shoulder instead of a full-on kick. As a consequence his shoulder was numbed, instead of shattered.

Shirou pushed the pain aside and lashed out as the leg was retracting. Light seemed to run across Caliburn's length as the blade struck, sliding neatly into the True Ancestor's chest. For one moment, the bloodlust and rage left its eyes, and it widened them in horror.

Temporal reversal was how vampires healed themselves, though that was a bit of a misconception. Instead of actually fixing the damage, their personal time was reversed so that the wound never happened. This meant only the most powerful of Conceptual Weapons, Mystic Codes, and even Noble Phantasms could harm vampires, be they Dead Apostles or True Ancestors.

Caliburn, however, was probably the second most famous sword in the entire world, and the only reason it was not the first was because of its sister blade Excalibur. Still, with such a doughty reputation the blade was one of the finest Noble Phantasms in history, and that alone would have allowed it to bypass the temporal reversal. But Caliburn was not just a sword; it was the reason King Arthur had never aged once he drew it from the stone.

Time manipulation was not limited to just internal uses.

Blood gushed, and failed to stop. The monster that had once been the White Princess stared in shock at the wound as the torrent of vitae increased instead of stopping. For the first time, it was off guard.

Shirou took a deep breath, and swung downwards, the blade in his hands shining like the sun.

"_Caliburn_!"

* * *

><p>"I can take care of myself!"<p>

"Yes, that is why you have done such an excellent job bleeding to death into the pavement. Unless you still wish to die, be silent."

To Sion's eyes, the gash in Ciel's skin appeared as a medley of incomplete and incorrect equations, the numbers corrupted or wrongly placed. Even as she watched the equations continued to decay, resolving themselves into incomprehensible gibberish. The Executor's wound was almost certainly fatal if left untreated.

"Immortality seems to breed such bad habits."

"Shut-" Ciel gasped as Sion poked the wound none-too gently. "-what are you doing?"

Fortunately, the equations were solvable. Simple manipulation of the numbers would restore the wound. Sion reached out, one finger glowing, and began to trace. Under her touch, the errors and the corrupted data melted away, returning to the clean mathematical lines they had once been.

"There." She looked up to find Ciel staring at her, a curious blush painting her cheeks. "What?"

"N-nothing." The Executor rose quickly. "We should-"

What they should do, Sion never found out. A silver blur flashed by, barely missing her, and slammed into the ground with an earsplitting screech, sending up a shower of gravel and dirt. Immediately the alchemist threw herself into high gear, rolling swiftly away. A deft twist of her body brought her out of the wild motion, flipping her easily back onto her feet with hands spread, ready for combat.

She glanced at Ciel, then back at her apparent antagonist.

_Wait...no._

No longer a blur, the silver object let out a groan of pain. Something clattered from its fingers, and Sion glimpsed the cracked shape of a sword, one that must have been beautiful when intact. It shimmered and vanished before she could clearly identify it.

"Emiya-kun!"

Without a word, Sion knelt down and grabbed the faker's left arm while Ciel took the right. For the second time in ten minutes they hauled him to his feet, hearing the plates of his armor screech against each other. The alchemist glanced at Ciel, who nodded grimly.

Shirou waved them away, coughing, but couldn't keep his feet. He swayed, and with horror Sion noticed the three long gashes cut into his previously-gleaming breastplate. The dark red of blood stained the metal, dripping slowly out of the armor with an unnerving sloth.

"I hope you figured something out." he coughed, clutching his chest.

Sion grimaced by way of reply, quickly running simulations through her head. Every tactic she could think of, every variable present in their situation was incorporated into equations as her mind blurred through every possible scenario.

"No," she admitted, "I have not."

Shirou's grimace matched her own. "Figured." He shrugged off Ciel's hand and straightened up, though pain thinned his mouth. "You guys need to get out of here, I'll buy you time."

As he knew she would, Ciel shook her head. "Unacceptable. If we retreat, we all go."

Sion nodded in affirmation. "This battle was thrust upon us; we were not prepared. We will do no good by dying here."

"It'll kill more people if someone doesn't stay." Shirou's voice was steady, but only through obvious effort.

"You are not the one to do so." The alchemist gave him a cold stare. "You can barely stand; you will not be able to put up much of a fight."

"I have Unlimited Blade Works, I can at least hurt her enough to make her back off."

Sion cocked an eyebrow. "You do not have the prana left to deploy it."

Shirou managed a grin. "Want to give me some?"

Blood flooded Sion's cheeks, even in this incredibly inappropriate situation. "W-what?" she stammered. Something suspiciously like a snicker came from Ciel's direction, and the alchemist cast an irate glance at her erstwhile comrade.

A low, menacing chuckle punctured the bubble of humor, and instinctively the trio tensed. Casually, almost with a bored air, the True Ancestor that had once been Arcueid Brunestud strolled out of the ruins of the block it had just demolished, a vicious, edged smile on her face. The talons of her right hand were still wet with Shirou's blood, and she raised those knife-like fingers to her mouth, licking off the vita in an almost lascivious manner.

The massive steel form of Seven appeared in Ciel's hands with a clatter. Sion nodded grimly, pulling the slim form of Barrel Replica from her waist. Shirou looked at them both with annoyance.

"Could we maybe have done this to begin with?"

"Always keep something in reserve, Emiya-kun." Ciel chastised. "Though it may not apply to you; you have quite the museum of weapons." Shirou heaved an exasperated sigh.

"Fine." One hand clenched, and a long blade materialized in it. "We'll keep it simple for now."

Ciel arched one eyebrow. "Summoning Roland's holy sword is hardly simple, Emiya-kun."

"For me it is." The True Ancestor was still watching them, eyes narrowed in anticipation, prowling gently before them instead of launching into a full-on attack.

"She's toying with us." The alchemist saw her friend's hands clench around his sword. "She could have killed us so many times before now. Why didn't she?"

"Perhaps she is playing with her food." Sion suggested, sighting down the Barrel Replica. "At any rate, I hope you are all ready."

Ciel snorted. Thunder boomed as Seven's muzzle flared, sending the first of the deadly shells towards its target. At her side, Sion opened fire as well, the bright beams of her weapon reaching deadly fingers out to ensnare the True Ancestor. The combined firepower of these two weapons was incredible; the Seventh Holy Scripture could shoot even a vampire dead through sheer kinetic force alone, while the Barrel Replica eliminated the special properties of immortality or invulnerability its targets often possessed, bypassing those qualities to inflict direct damage and increasing in power depending on the target's lifespan. Dead Apostles had steered clear of both the Seventh Seat and the former Eltnam for those very reasons.

The former White Princess weaved and ducked around the deadly projectiles, a very picture of balletic grace as she swept past the mix of beams and transformed Bible pages. Her inhuman ability, so often displayed, once again impressed on her opponents just how above them she was. Conceivably those projectiles could hurt her, if she allowed them to hit her. That, unfortunately, was looking very unlikely.

Finally, seeming to tire of the dance, the vampire leaped to one side and pushed off the ruined edge of a shop, hurtling towards her opponents with blinding speed. Both Ciel and Sion tracked her, firing off enough projectiles to annihilate an army, but as always the True Ancestor seemed to simply drift past them. Shirou clenched Durandal with both hands, hefting it up in preparation to swing. The vampire closed, until he could see the bloodlust in her crimson eyes. Durandal began to come down...

...only to cut air as a howling blast of white light struck the True Ancestor in the side and threw her into the air like a rag doll.

Shirou gasped, grip slackening on Roland's sword. "What was that?" Beside him, Sion looked equally surprised.

"That was not magecraft..."

"Nope!" A cheerful voice drifted down from somewhere above, and Shirou looked up.

Standing some distance in the air, as easily as if on solid ground, was a man. He was dressed in long, flowing black robes that concealed his body beneath their shapeless bulk. His hair was a messy pile of raven locks that fluttered in the wind. In one hand he held a long wooden stick, its tip sparking with crimson light. Prominent on his forehead was a very strange scar, shaped almost like a lightning bolt.

Ciel gaped. Sion's eyes widened.

The newcomer descended steadily to the ground, smirking as his feet touched the ground. "You guys need some help?" His Japanese was accented heavily, marking him as a native of England.

"How did you get here?" Shirou demanded. "I thought you were at the Clock Tower-"

"I am a master of spells, my dear Shirou," the taller man's smirk only widened, "and magic isn't restricted like magecraft. I'd tell you what I did, but it would go over your head and now isn't the time."

A howl of agony cut the air, just before a white flash streaked towards the gathered combatants. One claw swept out to slash the newcomer's head right off his body, but instead met black steel with a thunderous clang. Shirou gritted his teeth and kicked the vampire in the belly, sweeping Durandal down to intercept another blow meant to tear his chest open even wider.

Emerald eyes widened. "Wow, now I know why Waver kept calling me an idiot. She's _fast. _Thanks for that." He raised the length of wood, and flame belched out of its tip. The vampire leaped skyward, but the fire coalesced into the vague shape of a dragon and shot towards her in pursuit, leaving glowing embers in its wake.

The wizard turned his attention towards his companion, now leaning heavily on the pommel of his sword.

"You don't look so good."

"No, really?" Shirou laughed. The wizard nodded sagely.

"Medi-wizard arts aren't my style. I can't fix you up before she comes back." He glanced at the purple-haired alchemist. "Sion?"

She nodded and knelt before the faker, gently placing a hand on the bloody wound.

"Bet you're glad you wore the armor now, aren't you?" the wizard asked. Shirou nodded.

"She'd have filleted me if not for this. Thanks."

"Told you. Goblin-made items are the shit." The wizard glanced upwards. "Oh crap, she's coming back."

Like a comet falling to earth, the vampire plummeted downwards, white blouse and purple skirt alight with the enchanted flames that sought to consume her. Though completely enveloped within their hungry embrace, only a malicious grin adorned her countenance.

"I just got here, and I'm already sick of that thing." Green light poured forth from the wand, which the Ancestor twisted to dodge. Instead, a bolt of indigo light struck her in the left arm, which immediately became a pair of rather fuzzy bunny ears. A split second later, it was back to its normal shape.

"Crap!" the wizard cursed. "Transfiguration isn't going to cut it, then." He twirled his wand. A rope of white light blossomed forth and hurled itself towards the vampire's ankle. She pulled up her foot contemptuously and the rope sped by, only to reverse its course and wrap firmly around her chest, pulling taut and tugging her to the ground. She strained furiously against the binds, letting out a roar of frustration. Another moment and she would be able to break free.

Ciel fired five times, all five shells striking the vampire in the chest. White light flared as the mystical bullets came into contact with the inhuman flesh of the vampire. She let out more screams of pain, spasming, and the bonds snapped.

Red eyes turned to the Executor, promising horrible pain. Unfazed, Ciel fired again and again. The True Ancestor flowed around the bullets, raising one claw to strike down the impudent blue-haired warrior. A black streak of light hit her in the stomach, and inexorably bore her away from Ciel.

"How did you guys last against her?" The wizard demanded, turning to a now-patched-up Shirou. "I hit her with some strong stuff and she's not going down."

Shirou snorted. "We're not incompetents, Harry."

"Time to break out the big guns, then." His cheerful demeanor didn't change as the wizard reached into his robes and pulled out a small tobacco tin. He opened the little metal box and fished around in it, Shirou raising an eyebrow as his hand seemed to sink into the little box. "There we go!"

With one jerk the wizard withdrew his arm and hurled the ugliest-looking thing Shirou had ever seen onto the ground. Pale-skinned with a bulbous head, its proportions were all wrong. It resembled a mis-happen baby, or perhaps a large onion bulb.

"What is that?" Ciel gasped. The wizard ignored her. His smile didn't falter as he casually smashed a foot down into the back of its head.

"Time to pay rent, 'Moldy, old buddy." Shirou's English wasn't great, but he was able to discern that much. In response, the baby whimpered and tried to crawl away. His tormentor simply mashed the foot down harder.

"What are you doing?" The faker forced his voice to stay calm. "What is that thing?"

"A piece of shit." The wizard replied easily. "Don't bother yourself. My spell's about to wear off again, she's coming back."

As if on cue the light flashed off a quickly-moving object and the True Ancestor slammed its way into the group. One shoulder smashed Ciel out of the way while a vicious kick snapped Sion's head back before the alchemist could respond. A slash with Durandal was parried by a claw while the free hand swept towards the wizard's face.

Today was really not a good day for the monster Arcueid Brunestud had become. Her talons were not met by soft pliable flesh, but by the hard steel of a massive, jagged blade. She snarled and leaped back, whipping a pair of blows towards the new warrior. Each was blocked by that same monstrous sword, before the blade whipped around in its own attack. The True Ancestor swayed underneath the swing, crimson eyes surveying the warrior with new interest.

The new warrior stood almost seven feet tall. His light skin and surprisingly delicate features signified him as a European, probably of Scandinavian descent. Clothed in chain mail and wearing vambraces and gauntlets, he was every inch the quintessential Viking warrior, save his eyes. They glowed just as red as his unearthly opponent, rage and hatred swirling within those twisted orbs. His mouth twisted in a particularly vicious way, baring yellowed teeth at his opponent.

What drew Shirou's attention was the way the man's presence felt; prana radiated off him in waves, power rippling through the air around him. He was no mere man, that was for sure. In fact, he felt familiar, though Shirou had never seen him before in his life.

"Is that...a Servant?"

Harry Potter grinned. "Yep! You would not believe the trouble we went to, trying to figure out how to summon and maintain one of those buggers. First we had to create an artificial vessel depending on the class we wanted to summon, and then there was a bunch of bullshit because the spirit's prana didn't recognize our vessel and acted up in all sorts of ways, and then-"

Watching the twenty-something wizard talk energetically while two monsters squared off not two feet away from him, Shirou was reminded that his friend was completely insane.

"How did you manage to stabilize him?" Shirou interrupted Harry's ramblings. "You need an immense amount of prana!"

Harry favored the baby under his foot with contempt. "That's what he's for. But it's not stable; we'll only have use for him for another few hours. This is only temporary, you know." For one second, the wizard looked abashed. "I wanted to summon your Saber, but this artificial vessel thing only works for Berserker and Assassin for some reason. Sorry."

Shirou had stopped listening.

"...'my Saber'?"

Green eyes shone gently. "You always said you wanted to see her again, you know."

Despite the entire situation, Shirou felt his lip curl up into a smile.

"Glad you see it that way." Harry smirked. "Now then, shall we?" He gestured at the snarling Servant. "Let's see if we can cheat fate. Berserker!" he shouted.

The giant growled in rage, and leaped forward. Lightning crackled around his massive two-handed sword as he swung down. The True Ancestor leaped to meet him, bloody anticipation gleaming in her eyes.

Harry simply watched the battle with a smirk. "Well then, can't sit around. Vampires to kill, Servants to command." With that, he rose through the air, wand at the ready.

Shirou sighed, then dismissed Durandal, exchanging the weapon for a sleek black bow and a strangely-shaped arrow. Beside him, Seven clicked as Ciel adjusted her grip, and the long cords of Ethelite flew from Sion's fingers.

"He is crazy." The alchemist proclaimed. Shirou and Ciel exchanged knowing looks.

"You have no idea." they stated simultaneously, then the fight was on again.


	4. Quattuo Pluribus Unum

A/N: What is this I don't even -

I had hoped to make this a one-shot that could stand alone, without any background needed to explain it...but I failed. There's going to be a lot more in the future, and this might develop into its own story once I've worked out its kinks. This is quite different from my normal brand of fiction, but I enjoyed it. I've always wanted to try a family-type fic ever since I read The Nine Broken Mirrors by Ayien, and this is probably going to be it. There's really no action in this fic and I apologize for that, but I enjoyed writing it and I hope it at least entertains you. There will be a second segment of this in TTNHtHP, probably as a retrospective flashback on their lives before this fic. Also, forgive the bastardized cliche title. I can't think of any when it comes to these oneshots, apparently.

Alright, here we go. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>Rain spattered the pavement, falling from the sky in great globs of moisture. The few people still out on the streets hurried back and forth, their heads down or covered underneath umbrellas. Regardless of whether or not they were protected from the falling rain, no one seemed eager to stay in it.<p>

One man walked beneath the unending torrent of water with his head uncovered, yet he showed no real hurry to get out of the downpour. Black hair that was usually messy and spiked was now plastered to a scalp that bore a very interesting mark: a scar shaped like a lightning bolt. His long black robes were similarly drenched, hanging off his slim form. He seemed lost in his own world, hands shoved deep into pockets and with a pensive expression on his sharp, intelligent features.

Harry Potter continued down the street, taking a left at the corner, and fought the urge to sigh.

He couldn't do this anymore.

The workday had been incredibly stressful as soon as he walked in the door. A rogue wizard kidnapping Muggle children for some kind of twisted experiment had been tracked to Bath. He'd refused to come quietly, slinging spells of incredibly destructive power around and forcing the first responders to retreat. Harry had been immediately summoned, and after a grueling duel with a clearly-insane opponent, had managed to Disarm the man and Stun him into unconsciousness. He'd hauled the unconscious body back to London where they threw him straight into Azkaban, no longer guarded by dementors but still a formidable prison nonetheless.

With that done, he had actually been in a pretty good mood until Hermione had showed up at the front desk, asking where Ron was. Ignoring the twinge in his heart, he'd guided her to Ron's office and watched the two of them immediately vanish into their own little bubble. She'd brought him lunch, cooked with her own hands, and though it was a little burnt Ron ate it like it was his own mother's cooking. Harry had not yet eaten, and as if in protest his stomach growled. Hermione had immediately apologized over forgetting to bring him lunch as well, which he had firmly vetoed, insisting he would get lunch by himself.

On his way to one of the local eateries, however, another call had come in that four people dressed up like Death Eaters were causing trouble in a countryside town, and there were no other wizards available. Naturally, Harry had caught a Portkey there and quickly subdued the would-be terrorists, who turned out to be pureblood supremacists indulging their superiority complexes. The only things they had done were to toss a few Muggles around with Levitation Charms while bragging about the innate superiority of wizardkind, but once the 'Chosen One' appeared on the scene, wand in hand, they'd surrendered promptly. He'd brought them back to the Ministry and dropped them off in a holding cell to rot while they called their fancy lawyers to get them out. The purebloods always did.

Then, when he was ready to get back to some nice, boring and routine old paperwork, Ginny had showed up.

She'd wanted to _talk_, to fix their problems. Unfortunately for her, their problems weren't the kind that could be patched up like cracks in a wall. It was more of a foundation issue. They'd rushed into the relationship without really knowing what they were doing, blindly trusting in their friendship and familiarity to keep them together. While he really wanted to blame her for letting her hero worship get the best of her, the fact of the matter was that he had accepted her advances while knowing that he might not really reciprocate her feelings.

He'd seen tears in her eyes when he finally bit the bullet and told her that maybe, just maybe he was using her as a substitute. With nothing more to lose, he'd laid out his feelings for Hermione, saying quietly that perhaps they had jumped the gun on their relationship.

It was then that things got ugly.

Ginny was not prone to drama. Instead of yelling at increasingly high pitches and screaming that he had led her on, her eyes had glistened and her voice had taken on a hard, cold quality when she said, "Okay."

And then she left.

The fallout from this would be enormous. He bet he'd be receiving a lot of mail soon; Ginny would spill the beans eventually and then the Weasley family would be out for his blood. Except he was practically one of them these days, and that might confuse their approach, thus making the inevitable confrontation extremely awkward while they tried to figure out whether or not to treat him as an enemy. This was probably one of the reasons (besides the social taboo) one did not date one's family members.

After they were done yelling at him, they would probably try to convince him to get back with her. At least, Ron would. Once he was over his initial rage at his best friend going out with his little sister, he had decided that Harry was the best possible candidate for Ginny's affection. At the time, Harry had been relieved their friendship wouldn't stand in his way. Now, it was just another thing to deal with, one of the reasons he hadn't just apparated back to the flat he shared with her. He didn't want to face her today, and he was pretty sure she didn't need to see him either. Cowardice it might be, but Harry was far too experienced with all manner of wounds, both physical and emotional, to believe picking at a scab accelerated the healing.

He'd find a hotel, somewhere to crash for the night before going back to face the music the next day. Grimmauld Place held too many bad memories for him to take solace there.

The corner forced him to make a turn into an alley, one less populated than the area of Muggle London he'd just left. It was almost deserted by urban standards; only a few people walking the street and a bum lying facedown in a cardboard box. A pile of similar boxes sat tucked away in a shadowy nook in the road.

The rain was really coming down now. Droplets of water fell from the sky with enough force to sting his face. He shook his head irritably and continued on, ignoring the now-audible hammer of the rain on the paving stones and the pitched whine of a baby -

Wait, a baby?

He stopped in his tracks. Did he hear that right? As if in response, another cry echoed around the alley, this one slightly fainter than the other. One of the boxes in the pile shifted slightly. There.

Two steps took him to the pile and he shifted the boxes aside carefully. Assorted junk and bits of rubbish fell out as he did, revealing a rather large bundle of blankets wrapped carefully around a squirming shape. As he watched, a small face poked its way out and opened its mouth, emitting another wail.

"Woah," Harry muttered. He carefully eased the bundle, baby and all, out of the crate. As the baby cried again, a piece of paper taped to its blankets flapped. Harry gave it a glance; there were two lines written on the page in a messy and cramped scrawl. One was in a foreign language, Asian or something, but the other was in English.

"Ry-Ry-" He gave up trying to pronounce the last name, but fortunately the first name was much easier. "Shiki...huh. Is that your name?" As if in response, the baby turned its head to stare at him, brown eyes looking at him curiously. "I guess it is. Hi there." Harry smiled.

The baby cooed and reached up with one pudgy hand. Harry narrowly avoided having his glasses knocked off. "Watch it! I need those."

More rustling in the box distracted him, and he gently put the baby down, who cried in disappointment. "Hey, hey," he soothed, "I'll be back in a minute."

It was a little ridiculous, talking to an infant like it could understand him (it occurred to him that he didn't know what gender the baby was), but immediately the child quieted, simply staring at him.

"Thanks, little buddy." There were even more blankets in the box, and he pushed them aside. "Now to see what else is in here-"

He didn't know what he was expecting, maybe a stray cat that had climbed in to share warmth with the child, but he was most definitely not expecting another child, wrapped in just as many blankets as the first. The second baby took a look at him and immediately started bawling.

"Whoa, whoa! Hey, calm down!" He took the baby in his arms and rocked it awkwardly, trying to soothe the infant. Unfortunately, it only redoubled its screams. "There, there," he tried, patting the child's head while looking around. Fortunately, the alley was deserted now, and the bum hadn't stirred during any of the tantrums.

Before he had to resort to a Sleeping Charm, the baby stopped crying, hiccuped once, and looked adoringly up into his eyes. He noticed that the baby's own were a bright blue, as well as the tuft of hair that hung over its forehead. Just like the first baby's, the blankets had a page attached to them with tape, the same writing littering the margins. It was much messier, having both lines crossed out and replaced with equally-indistinguishable nonsense.

"Sorry, munchkin. Whoever wrote your name messed it up." Another cry vibrated the box. "Oh, come on! How many of you are in here?"

Another shifting of blankets revealed yet two more bundles of blankets. Harry set aside the blue-haired infant and cradled one in his arms. He pushed aside a fold and looked into startlingly gold eyes. The third baby simply stared at him calmly, a hint of inquisitiveness in its eyes.

"Hey there." Harry felt vaguely silly, but fought on. "Give me a minute, lemme see how your box-buddy is doing." He lowered the bundle carefully to the ground beside the other two, and then heard a squawk of indignation. The first baby had gotten a hold on the second's hair and tugged, eliciting another series of cries and wails. "Hey, break it up!" Harry gently pushed aside the first kid's hand and moved the bundles a little further apart, patting the blue-haired child on the head. "Behave, you lot."

The final baby had purple eyes, and Harry began to wonder where these strange kids were coming from, and who had left them in a box, in the pouring rain. Hell, maybe they already had pneumonia.

The thought sent him into a panic. He quickly cast minor Heating Charms on each child, making sure that the heat was at the right level. The first child gurgled happily, the second let out something suspiciously like a sigh, the third tilted its head at him, and the fourth made a whining noise.

"Enough of that." Harry placed the babies back in the box, then after consideration left the flaps open and cast a small Shield Charm over the top. "Come on, tykes. Let's get you out of this cold."

Rising, he cradled the box in his hands and left the alley. Maybe he would have to go back to the flat after all...

The trip back was...eventful, to say the least. He'd decided to Apparate home instead of exposing himself and the babies to the pouring rain, but the Apparation had sent all four of them into a joint temper tantrum, resulting in Harry juggling the box while opening the door. He briefly wondered what Ginny would think of him, coming home with an armful of squalling infants.

Fortunately, no one came to greet him and after bringing the box upstairs, a quick charm revealed that no one else was home.

He set the baby-crate down on the kitchen counter and belatedly realized that there were no diapers to be found. Even if there had been any, he had no idea how to change them anyway.

"Shit," he muttered. He needed to get diapers. Also baby-wipes, and a changing table because he was sure as hell not changing them on the dinner table. They needed milk, did he need bottles? Probably; he'd never seen a baby fed from any means besides a bottle or a breast, and he doubted any of the women he knew would be offering up the latter. Would baby formula work better? What was baby formula? Harry didn't know any of this stuff; every time he'd visited Teddy he'd never had to do anything but bounce him on his knee and tell him stories. How much did he need? How long would he be taking care of them?

The last question brought the nineteen year-old's thought process to a screeching stop. What was he intending to do with the four babies? Raising one child was the trial of a lifetime, but four? And all at the same time, to boot.

But if he didn't want to raise them, where would they go? He had no relatives he could foist them off on (he refused to consider the Dursleys), and it honestly felt a bit cowardly, not to mention manipulative to give these random orphans to his friends. If he wasn't willing to take care of them, why should they be? There was no way in hell he was giving them to an orphanage, and a foster family was just as bad. There was no guarantee the family would care about the kids, and might abuse them as much, or even worse than, the Dursleys had him.

Whoever had gathered them (there was no way they were related) had obviously intended them to be together. The foster system would also split them up. Harry didn't necessarily trust someone who would leave four infants in a box, in the pouring rain, but they had a point. With their parents unavailable, the kids would grow up ill-adjusted and always wondering why everyone else had something they didn't. Life was hard enough when you had people who cared about you at your back, it would be even worse without them.

Harry blew out a breath, realizing what he was doing. This would be the hardest thing he had ever done, including fighting Voldemort, and a lot stupider to boot. There was no logical reason he should spend the rest of his life taking care of these kids who he didn't even know. He wasn't even out of his teens. He had his own issues to sort out.

But as solid as those facts were, even more solid was the resolution that he was not going to hand them over to a faceless government who couldn't care less whether or not they were happy. He'd spent his entire life missing his parents, wanting them to be with him and to grow up like everyone else. He knew he had holes in his life from their absence, and he'd been lucky enough to find a surrogate family who loved him like one of their own. Most people weren't as fortunate; hell Voldemort might have turned out differently if his parents had cared about him.

Harry sighed and slumped onto the couch, putting his head in his hands. There was no walking away from this one.

After a moment, he rose and grabbed the box of babies. The first child giggled in happiness, while the purple-haired one fixed him with a strange stare. The other two were asleep.

"You two are going to be a handful," Harry told the conscious babies. The first child waved a hand happily. The purple-haired baby yawned. Harry smiled at them both, then carried the box over to the flat's small fireplace. An Ignition Charm quickly set the logs ablaze. Harry, still juggling the box, reached down with one hand to a large pot adjacent to the fire and pulled out a handful of silver powder. He tossed it into the flames, and as they blazed up and turned emerald, he shouted "Shell Cottage!" and stepped into the fire.

If he was going to do this, he was going to do this right, and that meant paying a visit to people who not only knew what they were doing but were still doing it.

* * *

><p>"Well, shit."<p>

Aozaki Aoko stared at the empty pile of boxes where ten minutes ago, she'd left four very special babies. The rain was soaking her clothes straight through, but she barely noticed.

"It was just ten minutes!" The sorceress protested to the alley. Predictably, the alley didn't respond. "I needed both hands!" She waved said limbs wildly, not really caring that they were full of clothes and other assorted knick-knacks. "Come on!"

Sighing, she unceremoniously dropped her purchases and took out a mirror. A single incantation brought the scrying spell to life, and in the clear glass her face vanished.

"Oh," she murmured, looking at the image. "Well..."

Aoko supposed she should try to retrieve the babies, but honestly she had no idea what she would do with them. She'd only stumbled upon them by chance, really, dimension-hopping into realities where they had been left completely alone. She'd retrieved Shiki from the burnt-down ruins of her family's home; Ciel - Elesia, she'd been called - from her mother's corpse. Sion had been taken from the ruins of the Eltnam estate in a reality where Wallachia returned much earlier, and Shirou...well, she honestly didn't remember.

She didn't consider herself a hero, but she wasn't just going to leave them there. She knew all of them as teenagers, was even friends with them in some realities, and in most of those dimensions their lives sucked. She'd been hoping to find a place where they could grow up as well...not quite normal individuals, per say, but at least as people not so hardened by conflict. It would have been interesting to see who they would become. She hadn't thought far enough to decide who would raise them.

But now they were at this point, and she knew the boy - no, man - who was choosing to share his life with them. He was an interesting one. Most of his realities ended with him either happy or at the very least content, and yet in most of them he never forgot his roots. It made him a good man, albeit one who tried too hard sometimes.

Miss Blue smiled, and let the spell fade. She tucked the mirror back into a pocket.

"I guess this is goodbye, kids. Don't worry, though. I think I'll drop by someday."

* * *

><p><em>Fifteen Years Later<em>

Shirou stared as the imposing ring of boys closed in around them. "I kind of don't want to be here right now."

Beside him, Shiki scoffed. "We wouldn't if you'd let them snort coke in peace."

"Cocaine is a blight on society!" Shirou protested, seeming to pay more attention to the young woman than the menacing circle of hooligans. "It's stupid of them to do that!"

The biggest boy cracked his knuckles menacingly. "And it was stupid of you to mouth off to us, you little shit. Now you and your sister are gonna get what's coming to you."

"Adopted sister," Shiki interjected nonchalantly. "We're not related."

"Yeah," another boy agreed, licking his lips and eyeing the pretty teen with a lusty look, "there's no way that arsehole is your brother."

"Exotic, she is," a third said. "One of them Japanese broads." He grinned suddenly. "Hey, didn't we invade Japan?"

Shirou groaned. The first boy shrugged. "Dunno, but there's a smokin' piece of ass right there. I say after we're done with the redhead we raise the Union Jack over her."

"That," Shiki's face remained perfectly composed, "is disgusting."

The boy, easily a foot taller than her and almost twice her size, laughed. "Feisty. I like that. Change of plans, mates," he nodded towards Shirou. "Keep that dumbarse busy." He advanced towards the petite girl, who merely looked at him like he was a particularly disgusting insect that had crawled onto her arm.

"Shiki!" Shirou cried, before receiving a punch to the face. He scowled as the boy's fist split his upper lip, and delivered an uppercut into his assailant's stomach. The thuggish teen choked and slumped onto his fist. Shirou shook him off and was promptly tackled by the rest of the gang, going down under repeated blows.

The leader advanced upon his victim, one hand already fumbling at the ties on his pants. Shiki gave him one more disgusted look. As one hand reached out to grab her, Shiki twisted, letting the grasping hand pass her by. Unable to stop himself, the boy continued moving, and as he struggled to stop himself her hand thrust out to meet him. The knife edge of her hand took him in the throat, folding him over with a choked gargle. As he collapsed to the pavement, she folded her arms and waited as grunts of pain and thumps of fists on flesh sounded from the writhing pile of teenage boys. Eventually, Shirou emerged from the mass of sweaty males sporting a torn shirt and a black eye, glaring balefully at Shiki as he stomped over.

"Thanks for the help," he grunted sourly. In response Shiki smiled, the corners of her mouth turning up slightly.

"No problem, hero." She clapped him on the shoulder, purposefully aiming for a sore area, and was rewarded by a wince. "And now we're late to pick up El and the nerd. If Dad gets pissed off, it's all on you."

The redheaded boy scowled at his shorter sibling. "Why does everything have to be my fault?"

Shiki rolled her eyes. "Because it always is. Stop being a boneheaded moron and maybe it won't."

Shirou wiped his hands on the hem of his ripped shirt, looking critically at the damage. "It's not too bad."

"You know El will insist on sewing it back up...Well. After she's done yelling at you for picking a fight for no reason." Shiki examined the nails on one hand.

"I did not."

"You took a detour into a bad neighborhood specifically to play hero. I thought Dad told you to stop." Shiki's eyebrows scrunched very minutely.

Shirou waved a dismissive hand. "Dad's a war hero, he'd understand."

Shiki massaged her forehead. "I'm not doing this. Let's just go."

A smirk curled Shirou's lips. "Okay. Give me a minute." He snagged the shirt collar of the ringleader, who was still clutching at his throat and making gagging noises. Shirou frowned and looked back up. "How hard did you hit him?"

"I didn't break his windpipe, if that's what you mean." Shiki shrugged. "It'll heal."

Shirou dragged the boy over to his compatriots and tossed him unceremoniously into the pile. He leaned forward, bringing their faces close.

"See? Cocaine is bad for you." He straightened up, whistling cheerfully, and walked off.

* * *

><p>"They're late!" Sion bounced anxiously, her ponytail whipping in the air. Elesia winced as it smacked her in the face."What if they don't show up? I have so many things to do! Do you think they got sidetracked?"<p>

Elesia grabbed the offending hair and pushed it away. She gripped Sion's shoulder, stilling the teen's nervous motion. "Calm down, Sion. I'm sure they're fine, and that they'll get here soon."

Sion turned anxious purple eyes towards her older sister. "Do you think he got into a fight again?"

Elesia's smile stiffened. "He better not have."

The two of them cut a striking pair, standing before the school's entrance. Elesia's blue hair was let out freely, falling to her shoulders in navy waves. The white-and-grey uniform the school require its students to wear fell neatly over her body, hugging her form without being scandalous. She'd caught many glances in classes for this, mostly from females who wanted her body and males who wanted...well, her.

Sion, on the other hand, had managed to make absolutely no friends. There were a variety of reasons for this, one of which was that she tended to get snappy when stressed. But because of her high-strung personality and obsessive focus on scoring the highest in every subject, she was always stressed. The guys of the school shied away from her for that, while the girls disliked her dyed hair and contacts, believing them too garish and obnoxious. Unfortunately, Sion didn't dye her hair or wear contacts, and any attempts to convince them otherwise were dismissed.

She might have been prime bully bait if Elesia hadn't made it very clear that anyone who messed with her sister would be shunned by the social cliques. Even with that threat, a group of delinquents once made the mistake of stealing Sion's books and dumping them in the trash. The next day, the miscreants came to school stark naked but completely unaware of that fact. The incident convinced the rest of the school that no matter how tempting a target she was, Sion was off-limits.

A battered-looking sedan veered into the parking lot and narrowly missed rear-ending a parked van. Tires screeched as they tracked against the road, and the vehicle slid right into the drop-off spot, bumping hard against the curb.

"Oh no," Sion winced, "did it get damaged?"

Elesia looked carefully at the car. "Can't tell. At this point the dents have their own dents."

The front passenger seat flew open with a crash and Shiki popped out, delicate features wrinkled in distaste. "Get out, you lunatic!" She shouted. "I'm driving!" In response, the driver's seat opened and Shirou stepped out, laughing. The redhead continued to laugh even when Shiki slugged him in the stomach.

"You're a reckless driver, Shirou," Elesia smiled.

"He's a dumbass," Shiki muttered, adjusting her jacket.

"Language, Shiki." Elesia admonished, tapping the raven-haired girl's shoulder.

"Oh, come on!" Elesia's stare was not deterred. "Fine," Shiki muttered, dropping her hands into her pockets.

"Drive if you're going to drive," Shirou said from the shotgun seat. Sion was already belted in, scribbling something on a notepad. "Get in, El."

* * *

><p>For someone who preferred to be brutally direct, Shiki's driving was surprisingly delicate. She obeyed the speed limits, managed her lights and turn signals with care bordering on obsession, and made complete stops. In an area as crowded as London, this made a slow commute even slower.<p>

"You drive like a granny," Shirou complained.

"As long as we're talking about something completely irrelevant, you enjoy wincing in pain every time you move?." Shiki replied without taking her eyes off the road.

"So you did get in a fight!" Sion exclaimed, looking up from her notepad.

"The black eye was kind of a clue, squirt." Shiki said.

"Oh...really?" Sion squinted. "Turn around."

Shirou duly obeyed, and she examined him as best as she could. "Does it hurt?"

"No."

"Liar." Shiki and Elesia said at the same time.

"Why do you keep getting beaten up?" Sion asked, attention returning to her notepad. "Are you a masochist?"

"First of all, I am not getting beaten up, and second you are too young to know what that is."

Sion looked up again, a scowl forming on her lips. "I'm only a year younger than you!"

"Hence the term 'squirt', kid." Shiki's tone was not unkind. "But we're not changing the subject. I also want to know why you're such a blockhead, Shirou." The redhead crossed his arms and slouched into his seat.

"You're not picking fights because you can, are you?" Elesia could hear the edge in her voice. "If you are, I'm telling Dad." It was unlike her brother, but recently he'd been coming home with bruises depressingly regularly, and it had to stop before he needed a hospital instead of the kitchen to get patched up.

"No!" As she'd expected, Shirou exploded in denial. "Why would you think that?"

"You're not giving us anything else to go on," Elesia said gently.

Silence reigned in the car for a long moment, before the bluenette decided to cut her losses. She could get the truth out of him later.

"How was your day, squirt?" Shiki asked, deftly changing lanes.

"Oh it was great!" Sion's enthusiasm bled through into her voice. "I aced the calculus test, got the highest score on my history project, and Arthur Thornton asked me out!"

"What?" Both of the elder teens shouted. Shirou turned in his seat, sulking forgotten. The car swerved sharply, eliciting a loud honk from behind. Shiki swore under her breath as she brought the vehicle under control. Behind her hand, Elesia muffled a smile.

"Thornton? Isn't he the brat who sat behind you in freshman year and pulled your hair all the time?" The seat squeaked under Shirou's grip.

"Yes, but he doesn't do that anymore!" Sion backpedaled, panic on her face.

"I remember him." Somehow Shiki's neutral tone was more ominous than a full-fledged threat.

"Shiki!" Sion screeched, face flushing red.

"What?" From what Elesia could see in the rearview mirror, her older sister's face was blank. "I'm not going to kill him."

"No, because that's not the reason you own a katana at all." Shirou muttered.

"Don't think I haven't seen you looking at my sword, hero. Touch it and I'll -"

"Children!" Elesia pitched her voice so that it cut off Shiki before the older girl could say something too visceral. "Do I have to come up there and separate you?"

"No, mother." Shiki mocked. The bluenette shook her head.

"Honestly, you're supposed to be the mature ones."

"Shiki Potter, mature. That'll be the day." Shirou teased. Shiki took one hand off the wheel to make a fist.

"You feeling lucky, punk? Or just more moronic than usual?"

"Enough!" Elesia could feel a vein throb in her forehead. "Shirou, stop making fun of Shiki. Shiki, focus on the road so we don't get killed."

"Sure," Shirou said nonchalantly. Shiki just grunted. Elesia heaved a sigh and turned to Sion, forcing a smile.

"So, about Arthur," she tried for a jovial tone, "tell me more about how he's changed."

"Yeah," came the interjection from the driver's seat, "and his address."

"_Shiki!"_

* * *

><p>Twenty minutes, five subtle death threats, and several exasperated outbursts later, the sedan pulled off the main streets. Shiki opted for a back road that wound between some of the older buildings, until she finally parked at a nondescript-looking flat.<p>

"That is the slowest ride I have ever been in." Shirou groused as he shut the door. "I could feel my brain going backwards."

"That's normal for you, dumbass."

"Shiki..." Elesia glared. Shiki shrugged.

"Fine. Dumbarse."

"Shiki!"

"I can only tone down my frustration with Shirou's stupidity so far." Shiki shut her own door as Sion and Elesia climbed out of theirs. "One day I am going to kill him."

"Sis!" Sion gasped. "You wouldn't!" Shiki cocked an eyebrow.

"Wouldn't I?"

"Sis!" Sion's voice vibrated one of the windows.

"Alright, alright." Shiki raised a placating hand. "I guess he can live."

"You shouldn't joke about things like that, Shiki," Elesia noted disapprovingly, "It really isn't healthy."

"Whatever."

The door clicked as Shirou turned the key, and the four of them trooped into their house.

"We're home!" Shirou called.

"And hungry!" Shiki added.

There was no reply.

"Dad's not home." Shirou noted.

"Sometimes he works late hours." Elesia offered.

"If by 'late' you mean 'comes back home in the wee morning', then yeah, he works late."

Elesia ignored her sister's sarcasm, knowing that Shiki didn't mean it. She moved into the kitchen, planning to get a glass of milk.

"Hey, look! He left a note!" As usual, Sion was more enthusiastic than she should have been.

"What's it say?" Shiki, already seated at the dinner table, asked disinterestedly.

"He'll be out tonight. Apparently he's having dinner with Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione. He's trusting us not to burn the house down."

"When have I ever?" Shirou asked from the stove, inserting the thawed beef roast he'd left out on the table this morning.

Elesia poured herself the milk, then took a seat next to Shiki, who was reading a newspaper. Without a word the black-haired girl tilted it so that the bluenette could read as well, and they continued in silence. Across from them, Sion continued to write meticulously on her notepad. A blessed quiet descended upon the Potter household, one that happened every day without fail.

Because as much as they bickered and argued, as much as Shiki's apathy and Shirou's hot-headedness grated on the nerves, as high-strung and bipolar as Sion could be, they were family. An unorthodox family, but family nonetheless.

* * *

><p>Aoko lowered the scrying mirror with a sigh, letting the spell fade away. Something about those kids just tugged on her heartstrings. Maybe it was because she'd just come from a reality where Dust of Osiris had obliterated humanity. Maybe it was because she'd seen Emiya Shirou die bitter and alone, ruined and wrecked because of an impossible dream. Maybe it was because she knew that in most of the realities she'd seen, the girl who called herself Ciel was never happy.<p>

These four were so different from the versions she had seen, and yet still so similar. Shirou, bereft of the tragedy that had locked him into a path of pain and death, but still with the same earnestness and desire for justice. Sion, no longer the quiet, ruthless alchemist but still brilliant and driven. Elesia, saved from ruin at the hands of Roa and the subsequent quest for atonement, but still calm and focused. And Shiki, the maiden who for all her callous talk did not take joy from killing, who indeed had never killed.

Aoko hoped with all of her heart that she never would, but the instincts she'd developed over the years told her otherwise.

"Fate is inexorable, isn't it?" she said quietly.

Before her stood a tall throne, steel chains lying broken and shattered at its feet. Ashes and dust littered the entirety of the room around her. Crimson spattered the marble walls.

In this world, the Dead Apostle Ancestors were all dead, wiped out by a White Princess driven out of control. Once she had eliminated the dark shadows of her kind, she had sealed herself away in the castle of her creator, slumbering in stasis for hundreds of years.

Only now, she was gone. The White Princess had awoken once more, and moved to fulfill her function. Why she had risen from her sleep, and who she hunted were mysteries, but Aoko had a sneaking feeling whatever unfolded would involve the four dimensional orphans she had taken so long ago.

Aozaki Aoko had never prayed before in her life, but now she offered one up to whichever deity might be listening, that whatever happened would pass those four by. That they would not need to sacrifice and shed blood to stop the storm that was coming.

But no gods were listening that day.


End file.
